Conspiracies of the Universe
by immie8
Summary: Missing scene from The Empty Hearse. After the railcar incident, John finds himself back at Baker Street where he learns of another secret (or two) that Sherlock's been keeping from him and somewhere along the way realizes that he really does forgive him.


_Summary: Missing scene from The Empty Hearse. After the railcar incident, John finds himself back at Baker Street where he learns of another secret (or two) that Sherlock's been keeping from him and somewhere along the way realizes that he really does forgive him. _

Disclaimer: Honestly, if I owned it do you really think that there'd only be three episodes every 2 years! Quotes were once again ones featured in Criminal Minds.

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"_The universe doesn't like secrets. It conspires to reveal the truth, to lead you to it" – Lisa Unger_

"_Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future." – Paul Boese _

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**Conspiracies of the Universe**

_Where am I?_

The thought stirred John from his daze. Blinking, he turned his head and began scanning his surroundings. It was familiar: the décor, the furniture, the seemingly random objects all around, but it was as if his mind was still in a fog. Then, all of a sudden, the fog lifted and it came to him – he was at Baker Street, sitting in his old chair. His brow furrowed as he attempted to recall how he got to his old home and then a groan escaped his lips as the events of the afternoon came flooding back to him.

_Typical Sherlock – twisting a near death catastrophe to pry forgiveness out of someone! And just for his own peace of mind as well; and he probably doesn't even see anything wrong his little stunt!_

John let out a sigh; this was definitely a part of Sherlock that he did not miss. He rubbed his hands over his face and considered leaving when Sherlock called to him. "Do you still take your tea the same way?" rumbled his voice from the kitchen.

"Pardon?" asked John, everything still feeling a little too surreal.

"Your tea?" repeated Sherlock, sticking his head out the door way, "Cream, no sugar."

"Y-y-yes, fine," stammered John. He shook his head and tried to force himself to focus. Indeed, he was so concentrated on the task that he missed Sherlock exiting the kitchen to present him with his favourite drink. He startled slightly at the realization, holding back an ironic laugh as he accepted the cup and saucer from his friend, then watched as Sherlock took his usual seat on the sofa across from him. A sudden pang struck his heart at how foreign this once familiar routine now felt.

"Do you need to see someone?" John blinked at Sherlock's question, his mind still seemingly unable to process even the simplest question. "Difficulty concentrating, easily startling, muscle tension, anxiety," listed Sherlock, his eyes flicking towards John's tense shoulders and tapping fingers as he listed the final two items, "all symptoms of shock. Shall I call a doctor?"

"I am doctor," snapped Watson, "an _**army**_ doctor if you remember. I know perfectly well what the symptoms of shock are and I'm fine!"

"Anger and irritability as well it would seem," muttered Sherlock.

John couldn't help but let out a groan as he sank back into his chair eyes towards the sky. As he turned back to Sherlock, fully intending to excuse himself he noticed that the detective had taken up his usual thinking pose: fingers steepled, his index fingers pressed against his top lip, the black leather contrasting sharply with the man's ivory complexion. John blinked as the oddity of that particular fact began to sink in.

"Are you cold?" he asked, his instincts beginning to whisper to him.

"What?" asked Sherlock, a truly confused look on his face.

"You're still wearing your gloves, are you cold?" repeated John. His instincts quickly jumped to high alert as the detective's only response was to shrug just a little too casually. Setting the saucer down, he stood up and marched straight towards Sherlock.

"Off," he ordered, staring down at his still sitting friend.

"Excuse me?" asked Sherlock, confusion and annoyance in his tone and expression.

"Gloves off. I may not be a genius but I know when you 're hiding something, so let me see," declared John, trying to push aside the comfort and satisfaction he felt at knowing that he could still read his friend. He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as Sherlock's mood suddenly turned petulant and he began to turn away.

"Oh will you stop being a child!" demanded John, reaching out to put his hand on the man's shoulder to force him to turn back. He pulled his hand quickly back when the small pull he gave his friend caused the man to hiss, a grimace of pain cutting across his sharp features. From his position he could see disgust filling his friend's eyes as this newest revelation was revealed and it broke John's heart to realize that Sherlock was likely disgusted with himself and his own inability to remain stoic. Taking a step back, John took a deep breath before slowly moving forward again.

"Sherlock," he began tentatively, "please, look at me." He smiled gently as the detective turned back towards him, keeping his hands up and palms raised. "I just want to take a look. Please, for my own peace of mind," begged John, locking eyes with the man. After a moment of silence, Sherlock very slowly inclined his head and John knelt down in front of the man. Slowly, he took Sherlock's hands into his own and carefully peeled away the dark gloves. He frowned as he turned his friend's hands over, the red, peeling skin and blistered fingertips evidencing recent burns.

_Probably from when he dug you out of the fire, you git!_

"You know, I never did thank you for saving my life last night. I owe you one," confessed John, gently examining the damage.

"I'm fairly certain it's more than one," drawled Sherlock.

"Excuse me?" replied John, his eyes fluttering up to meet the detective's a note of indignant surprise in his voice.

"By my count it's at least four: I mean there was that incident with the Chinese assassins," began Sherlock.

"I'm not sure that that counts and even if it did I'm pretty sure I saved you there as well," countered John.

"Then there was the pool incident," continued Sherlock, ignoring John's counter.

"That one _**definitely**_ doesn't count," declared John.

"And then there was the sniper on the roof…"

"Sni…when was this?" demanded John. Sherlock's features suddenly tightened and he pressed his lips together, silently cursing his slip. "It was the day you jumped, wasn't it?" said Watson, the realization dawning upon him, "That's why you jumped, isn't it? He threatened me."

"Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well," murmured Sherlock, biting his lip as what he'd meant to be a casual statement came out far more hoarse and confession-like than he intended.

"Why?" whispered John in a pained voice, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Isn't that what I just did," replied Sherlock in a flat voice.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" snapped John. He sighed as Sherlock simply pressed his lips together once more and sat up, pulling himself physically as far away as he could from John while the doctor still held his hands. "These look like they're going to be alright. Lucky for you they're just first degree burns. Now shirt – off." He shook his head at the look on Sherlock's face, only half able to keep his eyes from rolling. "Army doctor, remember? Now I know you're hiding something under there, so let me take a look." He ignored the scowl on the detective's face, continuing to stare at the man, giving no ground until he finally conceded.

John watched as Sherlock moved to remove his jacket, biting his lip when his friend winced at the act. Slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt; a sharp gasp drew John's attention and he moved to assist the man. He froze as Sherlock pulled away from his movements, almost withdrawing when the detective gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. John felt a lump forming in his throat as settled in behind his friend, slowly peeling away the shirt only to find a mass of bruises underneath. Ranging from yellow to near-black, they covered his torso, the worst injuries appearing to be in his abdominal area.

"Sherlock, these are bad," whispered John, lightly examining the area and pulling back when his friend let out a sharp hiss of pain. "What happened?" John felt a feeling of dread come over him as the silence stretched on. "Is it because you're leaving again? That's it, isn't it? You were in the middle of something and only came because it was an emergency and now you're leaving, aren't you?" babbled John, his breathing growing more ragged.

"No, of course not! What on earth would make you think that?" asked Sherlock, incredulously.

"Then why won't you tell me what happened?" accused John.

"Why does it matter?" questioned Sherlock.

"Because you're my friend and you've been hurt. Because I've been through two years of hell and I'd like to know that it was worth something!" exclaimed John. Rubbing his hand over his face he turned away, already regretting his last statement. He was mentally preparing himself to continue with his examination when the detective began to speak.

"I destroyed his network," stated Sherlock.

"What?"

"His network, Moriarty's, I destroyed it. It took me two years, I finally did it – finished it off right before Mycroft called me here," explained Sherlock.

"I see," said John slowly, still processing what he'd heard. "Moriarty was already dead."

"Yes, but his network was still out there and, even without him, still incredibly dangerous. I had to finish it," declared Sherlock.

"Why didn't you take me with you? I could have helped you, watched your back – kept this from happening."

"It made it easier if my death remained a fact. Safer too, for both of us. Besides, Mycroft was, as always, watching me."

"I still can't believe you let him know and not me," seethed John. Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes and all at once the pieces fell into place. "The two of you were in on it, weren't you? Exactly how long had you been planning your little farce that had me…" John trailed, closing his eyes as he tried to push back the memories of overwhelming grief, not letting himself remember how close to the edge he'd been.

"It wasn't my first option," repeated Sherlock.

"Excuse me?" said John, eyes snapping open.

"My first option – jumping wasn't it. The last actually – of thirteen options, remember, but Moriarty's suicide made it was the only viable one," continued Sherlock.

"You still could have told me. You should have told me," stated John, his breath hitching as he spoke.

"Your grief had to be real; it would have been too much of a risk if anyone had suspected," countered Sherlock.

"And we couldn't have that, could we," spat John, his voice dripping with distain, "I mean what's a little emotional trauma compared to risking throwing a wrench in the plans of the great Sherlock Holmes."

"I meant the risk to you," said Sherlock, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I can take care of myself," declared John.

"I know that, John. But _**I**_ wasn't willing to risk it, to risk you – to risk that even one of Moriarty's network would discover what he had," stated Sherlock.

"And what would that be?" asked John, the irritation clear in his voice.

Sherlock's head spun around and as their eyes locked the now obvious truth hit John like a ton of bricks: that Sherlock valued his life above all else; that all one need to do to have Sherlock at one's mercy, to keep this great, incredible man beholden to him was to keep John Watson in his crosshairs. John's vision began to blur and he felt his throat close as multitude of emotions overwhelmed him. John had no idea how much time had passed but by the time he came back to himself he realized that his friend had once again turned away. He opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. Fruitlessly he moved his lips, but his mind was blank. Biting his lip he forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat before letting out a sigh.

"We should go to my clinic. I don't think anything's broken, but it'd still probably be best to wrap these," stated Watson gently squeezing his friend's shoulder. He smiled as his friend turned back towards him, hoping that his actions and expressions could speak the words he could not find. Holding up his shirt, he carefully helped Sherlock redress and was about to pick up the jacket when Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"I am sorry, John, truly," said Sherlock softly.

"I know," replied John, "and I _**do**_ forgive you. Now come on, we'd best get you patched up before everyone finds out about you. Because you know what comes next," continued John, holding up the grey suit jacket and almost gleeful grin on his face.

"Yes, yes, I suppose you're right," agreed Sherlock, wincing a little as he twisted into the jacket.

"By the way," began John as the two men headed towards the door, "What do you think of calling this one 'The Empty Hearse'?"


End file.
